


GoddessOfTechnology's King's Quest Ficlets

by GoddessOfTechnology



Category: King's Quest (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28377942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfTechnology/pseuds/GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: Taking a page out of gerbil's book and shoving all my tumblr ficlets in one place. Mostly disjointed snippets.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Whumptober Fill - Waking Up Restrained

Graham’s return to wakefulness is slow, slow and numb and woozy, and for a long time he drifts, lost in a haze, thinking of nothing. 

There’s an odd sort of feeling he can’t pin down. At least not at first. As he wakes further the oddness sharpens into discomfort, sharpens into pain that has him hissing. Pain in his head, mostly, a throbbing headache, but there’s an aching in his muscles as if he’s slept on stone. Maybe he has - it wouldn’t be the first time. 

Oh, but he feels _miserable._ Reflexively, he curls up in a heap, moving to cradle his head in his hands - 

Or at least, he tries. His arms are met with resistance. They strain briefly and then relax, remaining at his sides.

It takes him a moment - his thoughts are still sluggish and uncooperative. But then he realizes, first with incomprehension and then with rapidly growing horror, that there’s something holding him down.

_There’s something holding him down._

Panic sweeps in, burning away everything else. Buzzing with fear and suddenly very wide awake, he tries to sit up, lunging against the horrible thing keeping him pinned. It refuses to give, a soft unyielding pressure, as painless as it is inescapable. Pressure against his wrists, across his chest, across his ankles. 

It’s impulse to open his eyes, to try to see, to figure out what’s wrong. He regrets it when he’s met with darkness. Perfect, blank darkness that goes on and on and on, shapeless and unending, and for a terrifying moment he thinks he’s somehow gone blind -

Everything blurs slightly, consumed, buried by panic. He tries again and again to pull his way free with unchanged results, fingers scrabbling at the floor under him. It’s stone, cold stone, and his fingernails scrape and crack and snap in the grooves and empty spaces. It hurts, it hurts and he can’t move, can’t get away -

Graham shouts into the darkness, and the sound echoes mockingly, ringing harsh in the silence.

* * *

Terror is a tiring sort of emotion. After an indeterminate amount of time he slumps, exhausted and still shaky with nerves, and a growing feeling that he’s been making a fool of himself. His own harsh, ragged breathing hums in the space - he focuses on the sound, counts the breaths, until he can think again.

He squints, hoping desperately. The rush of relief is dizzying when he makes out the barest hint of shapes. Not blindness then, just deep, deep darkness. He shouts again - this time purposeful, calculated - and listens to the sound as it bounces back and forth. A cave, then, or a cellar.

How did he even get here? For some reason, his memories are...foggy. He remembers a mission. A castle, buried in shadows and rubble, and empty crumbling corridors laced with spiderwebs. If he thinks very hard, he can remember a flash of pain, followed by everything going black. 

Something - _someone_ \- knocked him out. Dumped him here. Maybe left him here, for good. Maybe they won’t even come _back._

The thought is almost enough to spark another flurry of panic, and he has to force himself to think rationally. No. Whoever put him here should return at some point - what’s the point in keeping him alive otherwise? They need him for something, and that means they’ll check in on him.

On the other hand, he thinks with growing dread, maybe he doesn’t want to be here when that happens. 

Getting out will be difficult. Halfheartedly, he tugs at the bindings, with absolutely no results. He’ll need to think his way out of this, then - if he can. 

Graham stares up into darkness, and begins to scheme.


	2. Whumptober Fill - Kidnapped

The bars are annoyingly solid, not a weakness to be found or exploited. Amaya gives them a final shake and then steps back, her frustration simmering, bubbling over. 

Outside, the goblins continue to amble pointlessly. If it weren’t for the bars keeping her trapped, she’d have strangled them all by now. As it is, the only outlet she has is to pace from side to side like a caged tiger, glaring at any who dares to look at her. Most of them turn away, to her satisfaction.

Contemplating murder is only a temporary distraction. Prickles of discomfort begin to crawl up and down her spine - she looks around, and for the first time, it sinks in just how _small_ her cell is. How confined. The realization is...disturbing.

She feels a little like she’s being suffocated.

Amaya grabs the bars again, more to distract herself than anything else, and tries to think. She can’t escape on her own - she’ll stay here until someone deigns to let her out. But who? Certainly not the goblins. She’s shouted and threatened and swore at them until her voice turned hoarse, and it hasn’t done a single bit of good. 

She might stay here for a very long time. Maybe even forever. Now, there’s a grim thought. Stuck here with the walls that are trying to crush her to death.

_No._

Amaya stomps that small flicker of fear underfoot, kicks it aside. She’s going to get out of here. She _will._

And then she’ll make them all _regret_ this.


	3. Whumptober Fill - Manhandled/Held at Knifepoint

It happens remarkably quietly.

One moment Graham is walking down the semi-busy street, drifting aimlessly in the crowd. Partly, the fault is his own: he doesn’t notice when a particular straggler starts walking towards him just a little too hastily, a little too purposefully. A knight should have better instincts than that. 

The next, he’s being pulled aside. A bruising grip on his arm, tugging him close. A shock of cold steel pressed against his back, the knife slipped beneath his cloak, out of sight of any onlookers. The whole sordid affair is so quick that he doesn’t realize what’s happening until it’s over, and by then it’s far too late.

The fear is a shuddering, heartstopping thing, and he freezes, his aimless thoughts coming to a swift, jarring halt. It takes an insistent tug on his arm to get him to move again, and even then he does so numbly, the world blurring slightly around him. Everything feels off-kilter and far away - the chill of the knife seems to be the only thing he can properly focus on.

“Act natural,” says his captor in a low voice, clearly not wanting to be overheard. The words hang heavy in the air, like small pieces of lead suspended on string. “Keep walking. Pretend we’re friends.”

_Pretend we’re friends._ How ridiculous. He’d laugh if he weren’t so terrified. As it is, another tug on his arm - harsh, impatient - reminds him to keep walking, and he does so, stumbling along.

They pass by pedestrians - a young couple fairly skipping down the road, an older woman with two children, a lone man buried in a heavy raincoat. He tries to make eye contact, to somehow mutely ask for help. No one notices, their gazes sliding over him as if he didn’t exist, as if everything were perfectly normal. It’s almost surreal. 

He wants to be sick.

For a brief, delirious moment, Graham entertains the thought of elbowing his captor in the side, of running. He could do it, he thinks. He might get wounded for his trouble but at least, once he’s free, he could run.

Then the knife shifts, digging slightly into his back, and he realizes what a stupid idea that is. The risks are far too great, and a knife to the back is a very unpleasant way to die.

Instead, he walks, allowing himself to be led down the cobblestone streets, heart beating loud in his chest.


	4. Whumptober Fill - Falling

Graham was never plagued by a fear of heights, not even as a child. But up here, where the air is thin and cold and the landscape spreads out under him, he can’t help but experience a certain…change in perspective. A change in perspective in the form of vertigo and a desperate terror of falling.

It doesn’t help that the beanstalk - though more of a bean _tree_ , he supposes, with how it stretches up high into the sky - _sways_ under his hands, in slow relentless circles. Nothing immediately dangerous, but enough to make him dizzy, enough to make him feel like he’ll fall at any moment. It’s almost like seasickness. Bean-sickness? 

The world lurches sharply, spinning in a wash of vertigo, and the bottom drops out of his stomach. He yelps, holds on tight to the tendrils under his hands, tries not to look down. His fingers ache in that half-frozen way, searing and painful, and he hisses as he tries to breathe.

Not for the first time, he deeply, _deeply_ regrets not wearing gloves. The cloak keeps the warmth in, for the most part, but it does nothing to protect his hands. He can’t feel his fingers anymore. Or his face.

He’ll be glad when this particular adventure is over. How far is it to the top, anyways? 

For a time, he watches his breath fog in front of him, waiting to feel more stable. The moment he does, he leans back a little, determinedly _not_ looking down, and tries to eyeball the distance. He thinks he’s about…three-quarters up? Maybe? It’s difficult to make out where the top is. He leans back a little more, squinting up at the sky.

It’s a combination of multiple things, in the end. His dizziness, his numb hands, his brief moment of recklessness. The fact that the surface he’s climbing is waxy and unstable, the fact that he himself is tired and shaky.

But the end result is thus: Graham slips, his left foot giving out under him, and falls.

* * *

The moment itself is as short as it is terrifying. 

It’s several things at once. His heart leaping into his throat. A shout ringing in the chilly silence - it takes a moment to realize it’s his own. His desperate snatches for something, anything, to halt his fall, fingers scrabbling for purchase and instead tearing off thin strips of green, he’s falling, he’s _falling_ -

Then, he’s found stability, though how he isn’t sure. Somewhere in the frantic chaos he somehow finds a handhold. The moment - distressed, frenzied - is over as quickly as it began, and he’s safe again.

For several long, shaky moments, he simply clings and breathes, and tries not to think about how near a miss that was. How close he came to falling, down down down, a fall that would have ended in a very final, very _lethal_ manner.

When he feels less like he’s falling apart, he tries to move. Winces. As the panic fades he can see that his survival is at the price of a few spots of pain - his left shoulder hurts as if a muscle were pulled, and he can see where some skin was scraped off his hands. It’s a price he’ll gladly pay for the privilege of _not_ splattering on the ground below.

Stars, but he wants this to be over, wants to be safe and sound on the solid ground below. He has a job to finish, however, and he can’t go back until he’s done. 

There’s nowhere else to go but up. He knows this. He rests a moment, breathes, and tries to calm the tremors remaining in his hands.

Then, he reaches above his head - slow, careful - and continues to climb.


	5. Whumptober Fill - Failed Escape

Finding an exit is far from easy: the castle is as vast as it is convoluted, with long impractical corridors that twist and bend and snap in dead ends. Graham wastes precious time finding and re-finding his way, trying to tell apart some dozens of crumbling candlelit hallways. 

Silence is a necessity and a challenge. The carpet - moldering, decaying - doesn’t do much to cushion his footsteps, which seem to ring jarringly in the silence. Even his own breathing feels unacceptably loud - though that could be his own nervous mind playing tricks on him. He tiptoes and tries to hold his breath and listens intently for anything that sounds amiss, constant buzzing anxiety humming under his skin.

He doesn’t know how much time passes this way - it’s long enough that the walls start blurring into endless stone, that the flickering candlelight begins to burn into his vision. But after a nerve wracking eternity, he stumbles down a winding corridor and is greeted with a blessed sight: a window. So encrusted with filth that it barely lets in any light, but a window nonetheless.

It’s too narrow to let him through, to his disappointment. But a window means he’s close to the outdoors, means he might - _must_ \- be nearing an exit. The thought sparks a desperate sort of hope.

A door. All he needs is a door to the outside. Then this horrible nightmare will finally be over.

* * *

The window heralded a welcome change, the castle’s confused passages slowly detangling into something resembling structure. It’s easier, here, to keep track of where he is.

Eventually, he stumbles across familiar paths. He knows where this is, walked these passages when he first snuck into the castle. More importantly, he knows where to find the entrance he used, and that’s enough to spark a healthy amount of glee as he darts down fractured steps.

He finds it easily: a door, small and modest, that leads directly outside - a servant’s entrance, back when this castle still had servants to tend to it. The door is in a shape to match the rest of this awful place - crumbling with dry rot, hinges flaking with rust. But it’s his way out of this horror, and in comparison with that shining, glittering fact its appearance is irrelevant. 

Graham fairly lunges to open it -

\- and finds it locked.

He stares at it a moment, dumbstruck. Tries again to open it, in desperate denial. The door doesn’t cease to be locked, but it makes a sharp cracking noise of protest, and he freezes, not wanting to draw attention to himself. 

No. _No_. There has to be a way out, there has to be if he just thinks _,_ he’s so _close-_

Except there isn’t. He doesn’t have a key, or a lockpick, or really much of anything: he woke in that awful cellar to find his pockets carefully emptied. And the lock itself, though aged and grimy, is solid - no chance of somehow snapping it in half.

Another dead end, then, though of a different sort. More calculated, more deliberate. The initial shock fades and makes room for contemplation.

Someone locked this door, while he was restrained and unconscious. Someone blocked his way out. That someone wants him to stay inside, trapped, and is willing to go to great lengths to ensure that.

The fear is a slimy, crawling thing - he scrabbles at the door, his cracked and bloodied fingernails chipping off flakes of rotting wood. Watches the flakes flutter to the ground and carefully calms his frazzled nerves.

There are other exits. Somewhere, there should be a door that isn’t locked or a window wide enough to allow him though. Definitely. He just needs to find it, and then he’ll be free.

He doesn’t think about the alternative, about how it’s far more likely that every single door has been locked against him, about how he’s yet to find a window wider than a handspan. Doesn’t think about the dread slowly building in his chest.


	6. Whumptober Fill - Altered States

The door is locked, locked and barred. Graham gives it a final shake - fruitless, of course - before stepping back and beginning to survey the room. He needs a way out; he has no intentions of staying here longer than necessary.

Unfortunately, there's remarkably little to work with. No windows, for one, the room instead lit by several dim, flickering torches. And the room itself is nearly barren, walls mere empty stone: the only furniture is a bookcase at the far wall, innocuous, unassuming, books crammed chaotically into every cubic inch of space. 

Faintly hopeful, he walks over to the bookcase and begins to test the surrounding wall, searching for a loose stone that could signify a secret entrance. No luck, unfortunately. It seems he’s stuck here until his captors let him go - who knows when that could be.

Something about the books themselves, however, catches his eye. 

Curious, he pulls one of them out, opens it to a random page. An indecipherable mess in black ink meets his eyes - it looks like a child has scribbled inside it with a calligraphy pen. He flips through it, only to see that all the pages are the same. Completely incoherent.

He puts it away, stuffing it back into its space with difficulty, then chooses another one. This one has a strange pattern, like a bird had stepped in a puddle of pale blue ink and then walked over all the pages. Different, but also meaningless. 

The third one looks like it might have had words, once upon a time, but now they're blurred and illegible as if the book were dropped in a bathtub. The fourth one is filled with nothing but blank green pages. The fifth one is just empty covers. Each pointless in their own way. They leave him confused and bewildered and just a little unnerved, the beginnings of a headache forming. He puts them away, not wanting to look at them anymore. 

With the books a hopeless waste of time, and the prospect of escape minimal, there isn’t much else to do. Sighing, Graham sits on the floor and begins to wait.

* * *

It’s not very visible at first. But in his boredom, boredom born of hours of staring at the wall, with nothing but incomprehensible books and stone walls for company, Graham eventually notices something peculiar about the room.

It’s nothing serious, not at all. Just that it isn’t level, instead skewed slightly to the left. He can see the imperfect lines of the walls, can feel the uneven floor under his feet, as if the entire room were tipped to one side. Again, nothing important.

...Except.

He doesn’t know what sparks his suspicions, but Graham knows by now to trust his instincts. He doesn’t hesitate to stand, to turn on his heel, exactly one half-circle around. 

It takes him a few moments to realize what’s wrong: the room is still tilted to the left. This is...nonsensical. By turning around, the room should now appear to him to be tilted to the right.

Something prickles at the base of his spine, something clawing and fearful.

No. It probably doesn’t mean anything. He’s just being absurd. He’s been here so long that he’s starting to see things. Definitely.

Still, the sooner he’s out of here, the better. Hopefully his captors will let him out soon. 

* * *

Once he’s noticed it, it becomes impossible to ignore. The proverbial elephant in the room. Even when he tries to think of other things - escape, for example - he remains peripherally aware of it.

The thing is, the room doesn’t _always_ seem tilted. Like now. Sometimes it seems normal. Sometimes not. It’s enough to have him doubting himself.

Now, it’s tilted again. He blinks rapidly, trying to fix the image. Normal. Skewed. Normal. Skewed. They flip back and forth, back and forth until they seem superimposed on each other. Now the room is straight. Now it’s skewed. Now it’s both at once, and now it’s neither, and now it’s skewed again -

He shuts his eyes, shuts them tight, blocking out the sight of the room around him. It’s only when he does so that he realizes how badly his head hurts, a jabbing pain that seems to claw at the insides of his skull.

He needs to stop thinking about this. It doesn’t matter. No one cares, least of all himself. 

His energy would be better put towards finding a way out of this awful room.

* * *

It doesn’t make any _sense_. 

One moment, the walls are skewed and the bookcase is straight. The next, it’s the converse. Always slanted to the left, always. He tilts his head to the left and the bookcase is straight. He tilts it to the right and the bookcase is listing left. Always shifting, always changing, never staying the same.

It bothers him. It bothers him tremendously. He wants it to stay constant, to stay whole. Rooms are meant to be stable things.

Who knows what other things could be changing when he isn’t looking? It’s a terrifying thought. He imagines the walls shifting in, little by little until they’re crushing him. Imagines the stones slipping out of their spaces.

He needs to keep it stable, somehow. He can’t focus otherwise. The risks are far too great.

...Maybe it’s just the bookcase?

That...makes sense. Maybe the bookcase is tilted, and the room isn’t. Or conversely. That would explain his confusion. And if he straightens the bookcase, then the oddness would go away, and he wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

* * *

He’s not sure how much time it takes - the bookcase is heavy, far too heavy to lift. He has to drag it screeching across the floor, inch by painful inch, shoving it into position.

The problem is to keep everything _perfectly_ straight. There’s no pencil he can use to make guidelines - he scratches lines into the stone with his fingernails, uses his cloak as a level.

Finally, he’s done. He steps back, stares at his work, ignores his bleeding fingers and the scrapes etched in the floor. It still looks wrong, somehow. Why is it wrong? Why-

...Oh. _Oh_. It all makes sense now, perfect glittering sense. He’s been so _silly_. He laughs, and the sound rings loud and high in the silence. How could it have taken him this long to figure it out?

The room isn’t tilted to the left at all.

In fact, it’s tilted slightly, ever so slightly, to the _right_. 


	7. Whumptober Fill - Abandoned

There’s a spider in a corner of his little cell, weaving a web. Up and down it goes, silk shining pale and blue and faint in the light of the glowing lizards. Graham stares at it, his thoughts foggy and slow, bobbing to and fro like pieces of rotten driftwood in the water. 

He’s so _tired_. So tired it’s almost physically painful. Too exhausted to sleep. Even breathing feels a near-insurmountable chore, something he has to struggle to do, an inconvenience. His heartbeat is harsh and sluggish and painful in his chest, loud in his ears - he tries to count the dull, aching thuds. Can’t keep track of the numbers.

He was hopeful, at first - he didn’t have a choice to be otherwise. His plan, born of a complete lack of options, was to negotiate. To talk for his freedom. He waited a long time for someone - _anyone_ \- to visit, rehearsing arguments and justifications under his breath as he watched the darkened corridors, waiting for the moment that one of his captors would arrive.

But the goblins never came back. Days passed and they never returned. The food stopped and they never returned. Very simple, very neatly done - all they did was lock him away and leave him to rot, like some plaything that they grew bored with.

There was the fatal flaw in his plan. You can negotiate with a person - you can’t negotiate with stone walls and locked doors. Graham repeated his words until he could recite them in his sleep, repeated them until his voice withered and died from lack of water, but they were worthless without an audience. A key to escape that would never be used.

Now, he’s forgotten all of them, every single pretty persuasive word. Even if one of the goblins did appear, he wouldn’t be able to remember, to say any of them.

Water drips quietly into his cell, a cold, soft sound. One of the lizards springs through a puddle, a brisk _splish-splash_ that rings loud in the almost-silence. 

Graham doesn’t even flinch. He sits, half-numb, and watches the spider build its web. Up and down, up and down, over and over and over again.


	8. Whumptober Fill - Run!

He can hear shouting, too near and too dangerous - the guards are close and getting closer. Their frantic rushing in the neighboring corridors shakes the ground, stirs up dust - Graham can see specks dancing in stray rays of sunlight, softly gold.

Amaya can hear the noises too, if the way she hastens is any indication. Graham stumbles after her, trying to keep up - he can, if he holds on to the wall, if he pushes himself from one patch of sunlight to the other.

But he has to stop. His lungs are burning and his ribs are aching and he can feel his heartbeat racing in his throat, shallow and fast and painful. And he’d push on regardless if he could, but it’s growing harder to breathe, harder to put one foot in front of the other. The world is beginning to float away from him, like he’s seconds away from fainting, and _that_ would be fatal.

“Amaya,” he mumbles, his voice too soft, too faint to be heard over his own footsteps. He tries again. “ _Amaya_. I have to stop.”

She makes a frustrated sort of sound (not directed at him, he knows, but it stings all the same) and skids to a stop, practically crackling with impatience. She turns, careful to watch the surrounding corridors, searching for any suspicious movement in the shadows.

Graham, for his part, promptly keels into the wall, ears ringing shrilly and vision going blurry around the edges. For several long moments, he stands and breathes and waits for the world to function again. The urge to simply fall is nearly overwhelming - he fights it, locking his knees, fingers digging into the wall.

“You look worse,” Amaya says at last, tone a little softer than usual. Her face is partially in shadow, but Graham can see open concern - at least, as open as Amaya ever is. “A _lot_ worse.”

Graham leans further into the wall, wheezing. “I can guess,” he says between harsh breaths. He _feels_ worse, numb and dizzy. Running has become a near-insurmountable effort. He slumps further, nearly doubled over, and hisses against a sharp, jabbing pain in his abdomen. 

_You’re slowing her down_ , whispers some biting part of him. He knows he’s been flagging, an unforgivable offense. Knows that he’s been deteriorating. Knows, with a grim sort of certainty, that it’s only going to get worse.

The shouting is getting closer. He closes his eyes, digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands, desperate guilt gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

They’re moving too slowly because of him. They’re going to be caught because of him. He’s the _king_ \- he’s meant to keep her safe, and he’s doing precisely the opposite, and he doesn’t know what to _do._

Except.

It’s something he’s been considering, on and off. An idea that he didn’t want to take seriously. But that was then and this is now, and he needs to adapt to the changing circumstances - that he’s more of a liability than he first thought.

“Amaya,” he says, as calmly as he can manage. It’s the worst idea he’s ever had. It’s also horribly likely to work. “Amaya. I have an idea.”

Amaya must see something of what he’s about to say in his face, because her expression freezes in an odd sort of way. “I’m not going to like this, am I,” she says, not a question. Her tone is casual, but there’s a note of steel underneath. 

“Probably not,” he replies. Breathing still hurts - he has to steady himself before he can speak again. “You need to run.”

A beat of silence. 

“I’m sorry?” she asks, light and harsh and grating. He flinches and scrabbles at the wall, trying to push himself upright. His muscles scream at him to stop, but he forces himself to straighten, to stand as tall as he can, to radiate authority.

“Run ahead. Leave me behind. That’s an _order_ , from your king,” he adds when it looks like she’s going to interrupt, trying to keep his voice level, commanding, expectant. Trying to exude confidence, like the mere idea of contradicting him is absurd. He’s not sure he entirely succeeds - something makes his voice splinter partway through.

The prospect of being left here, left alone, is terrifying. But not as terrifying as the alternative, as one of his closest friends dying because of him. Because he’s too slow, too weak, a _burden_.

(The thought tastes bitter, like ashes and rust. _Never again_ )

He expects the look of disappointed anger on her face. He doesn’t expect her to snarl under her breath, to reach for him and grab his arm and pull it over her shoulders, pull him close. He yields, too bewildered to argue. A part of him notes numbly that it’s easier to stand when he’s being supported.

“What are you doing?” he asks, dumbstruck.

“Getting us out of here,” she snaps, and strides down the corridor - pulled along, he stumbles beside her, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“I gave you an order.”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to imprison me for treason, _Your Majesty,_ ” she answers tartly. “Now, move. I am _not_ leaving you behind.”

Graham would protest further, but a rush of footsteps - too close, too _close_ \- interrupts him, and he realizes that they’re running out of time. Raising a fuss would only increase the chances of capture.

There’s no time for him to do anything but follow her blindly, one step after another, down the sun-streaked corridors.


	9. Whumptober Fill - Trail of Blood

The footprints have been growing more chaotic, more frenzied, churned with mud and frantic terror. Vee follows them as swiftly as she can, her boots splattering with mud, and tries to calm the fear churning her gut. She can’t afford to waste time on useless speculations, on what could have been and what might be - she needs to catch up, quickly, before her quarry slips away between her fingers. 

It’s a feeling of wrongness that stops her in her tracks, terrible creeping _wrongness_. And nerves are prickling under her skin but she knows to trust her instincts, so she slows to a stop, forces herself to take in Daventry’s awful, nightmarish landscape, horribly conscious of every moment she wastes woolgathering.

She needs some time to find it. An oddness surrounding a particularly tall thornbush, a vicious sort of strangeness. A patch where the sickly green sunlight hits it strangely, a patch where it looks...darker. It feels almost malevolent, in a way - or at least, more malevolent than usual.

But it takes her touching one of the _wrongwrongwrong_ thorns, takes her finger coming away smudged red, before she can identify it:

Blood.

A small amount, half-frozen, but blood all the same, smudged black and oily against the cruel grey thorns. It sweeps awkwardly upwards, like someone stumbled into the bush and then pushed away, to continue on their path. Vee can imagine it happening well, too well, and the mental image knots something in her throat.

With it, however, comes renewed determination. She doesn’t hesitate before flinging herself down the path again. Her sense of urgency is becoming sharper by the moment, aware as she is of every second she’s losing - her fear is mingling with a terrible sense of dread. _Please be alright,_ she prays to herself, as she follows the scattered, fractured tracks. _Please_. 

The forest - what was a forest, at least, once upon a time, before it was choked to death - begins to blur around her. Vee keeps running, and hopes that she isn’t too late.


	10. Whumptober Fill - Fire

There’s a baby dragon in his study, lurking on top of a bookcase. Graham glances up at it between the papers he’s signing, keeping an eye on it. Read, sign, glance, read, sign, glance. A rhythm that would be horribly monotonous if he didn’t feel so nervous.

A part of him realizes that it’s ridiculous to be nervous. The creature is small. Small and unimpressive, hardly an immense deadly monster at all. You can’t be afraid of what is, in essence, a large and slightly-smoking lizard. The Dragon (he refuses to give the thing a proper name) is capable of little more than chewing some sheets of addenda. It’s not _dangerous_ , is the point.

Things might be easier if it _were_ dangerous, he feels.

Easier to chase it away. Easier to toss it out and lock the doors. Easier to let it dart off into the undergrowth, unseen and forgotten, leave it to join the rest of its kind. He’d have no reason to keep around something intent on harming him.

But it’s _small_. Small and weak and pitiful and terribly inoffensive. And Graham might be thoughtless at times, thoughtless and stupid, but he’s hardly _cruel_. He can’t leave the tiny thing to die alone, especially when he’s the one responsible for kidnapping - dragon-napping? - it in the first place. 

So...he kept it. Reluctantly, but he kept it.

No3 was the one who suggested he keep it in the study, where it can be watched. Most of the time it just wanders about uselessly, using the occasional book as a chew toy. It’s too young to fly, thankfully - Graham doesn’t think his nerves could handle it otherwise. He’s on edge as it is, unable to keep himself from tracking its movements.

Like now.

Sighing, he signs another paper. Automatically, he looks up, eyes flicking to the bookcase -

\- and his heart skips a beat when he sees that the dragon’s gone. For a moment, he stares, shocked into stillness, trying to think of what to do, trying _not_ to think about dragons wandering where he can’t see them. 

A scrabbling sound at his feet makes him jump, and he looks down to see the dragon clambering up one of the table legs, pulling itself onto his desk, claws digging into the wood and peeling away small chunks. He watches it pull itself onto his desk, watches it stumble over the leaves of parchment, small and pathetic, and thinks about how he didn’t even see it leave its perch on the bookcase.

Eventually, it gets bored with exploring. Its scales rasping, it pads up to him, noses at his left arm. A part of him wonders idly, feverishly, if it’s going to try and bite him. It could chew his fingers off, sink its sharp, needle-like teeth into his wrist. He wouldn’t be able to stop it in time. His vision fills with images of blood dripping over his papers. No1 would have a fit, he thinks.

None of that happens, however. With a noise like the winding of a clockwork toy, the infuriating creature begins playing with a loose thread on his sleeve, tugging at the string with its teeth. It makes happy ridiculous chirping sounds as it does so, like some sort of scaly kitten. A thin coil of smoke puffs from its nostrils, drifts in the air, and something in his chest freezes at the smell of ashes.

His instincts are telling him to swat the dragon away, get it off of him, no matter the cost. To run, as fast and as far as he can. Graham does neither, but it’s a near thing. 

Instead, he sits and stares at the creature, looking but not seeing, thinking of dark caves and yellow-hot fire.


	11. Whumptober Fill - Drugged

It’s the sound of something shattering, splintering, that rouses him. 

He wakes like he’s surfacing from some vast limitless ocean, blinking violet water from his eyes. His vision is blurry, wavering, as if his head were still stuck underwater, but if he focuses he can force the muddy colors into shapes and meaning.

_Pink_. A hand (his own? It doesn’t feel like it belongs to him) held in front of his face, fingertips dripping with tea. There’s tea on his hands and soaking into his shirtsleeves and dripping onto the carpet. No1 will be upset.

_Red_. A small rivulet of blood lining the palm of his hand, hardly anything to write home about - he’s gotten worse when climbing trees as a child. It’s jarring and vivid as blood generally is, but he’s not particularly concerned.

_Blue and purple and white_. The shards of what was once a teacup, crumpled between his fingers, spotted red. Some lie on the floor at his feet, sparkling at him - Graham can see the remnants of flowers painted on the pieces, small and dainty. _Forget-me-nots_. He stares at them uncomprehendingly, trying to make sense of what’s in front of him, trying to -

The world flickers. Hands tug at him, wrapped around his arm, leading him somewhere. He can hear porcelain crunching under his feet. There’s a voice at his side, and though he can’t make out the words, it soothes him. He knows that voice. It’s Manny, his friend. Manny will take care of everything.

(- no, no, that feels wrong, that feels _wrong_ -)

Dimly, he can feel something - _someone_ \- pushing him into a chair. It cuts through the fugue, wakes something shivering and fearful. Yielding feels like surrender, like he’s resigning himself to some terrible fate. He tries to push back, to fight, but his arms refuse to cooperate, remaining pinned and numb at his sides, and he crumples, a marionette with its strings sliced. 

(Through his blurry vision he can see a window at his left. _Throw yourself through it_ , mutters that fearful part of him. _Fling yourself through the glass. Run and run and run until there’s nowhere left to go._

But his legs are heavy and his muscles are leaden, and he remains where he is)

Someone is handing him a goblet, trying to press it into his grasp. On instinct, he takes it with his injured hand, doesn’t realize what he’s done until he sees the blood smearing into the tarnished silver, bright and red and shocking. 

Stars, his head _hurts_. 

“I know it hurts, Graham,” says Manny’s voice. The words are sharp and clear and crystalline, slicing through his jumbled thoughts, demanding all of his flickering attention. Even that snarling frantic part of him goes quiet. “But if you drink this, you’ll feel better. I promise.”

The words swirl and dance around his head, narrowing down into a single simple phrase. _Drink this._ It feels like the only thing he can rightfully do. He wants to feel better, after all, wants this foggy, crushing feeling to go away. Wants to slip back down under the water and the stars. Doesn’t he?

( _\- no, no, no, no, no -_ )

He drinks without thinking, and nearly chokes - it tastes like raisin juice, but _wrong_. Sweet and chalky and gritty, poisonously cloying, like failure and fear. He wants to spit it out, but his path is already laid for him, and it’s too late to turn back now. All he can do is feel himself drain the goblet, drink every last drop.

( _no, please, no -_ )

The world slowly crumbles into pieces, shards flying away from him. He tries to gather them up, to hold them close, but they slip away between his fingers like so many small silver fish. The noise in his head fades to be replaced with the roaring of ocean water, water that fills his lungs, cold and nauseating, numbing him inside and out.

Quietly, Graham slips down amongst glittering stars and violet waves, sinking into the depths. And he falls until the purple deepens to black, until he can’t hear anything but the dull thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears, muffled and far away.


	12. Whumptober Fill - Broken Trust

“You’re sure about this? This...doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

His voice echoes oddly inside the cave, bouncing back into his face - he winces at the note of unease in his voice, at the fear lacing his words. He wasn’t afraid before, he thinks. Before, he was almost excited. Excited to have his first proper adventure.

But the further they go into the cave, the more anxious he feels, the stronger grows a creeping sense of dread. As the shadows deepen, darken, so do his fears.

It’s not every day, after all, that one faces a dragon. 

“Those don’t sound to me like the words of a knight, friend.” Manny's words are gentle enough, but there's a note of reproach underneath that brings a flush of shame to Graham's face. "Are you doubting me?"

"No! No, not at all,” he rushes to say, terribly afraid of disappointing his newfound friend. “I just - I don’t know about this anymore. It’s...it’s very kind of you to accompany me, but I think it would be better if - ”

“Now, now, Graham,” interrupts Manny, placing a heavy, armored hand on Graham’s arm. “Remember, I’m not doing this purely out of charity. I need that eye just as much as you do. This is an equal partnership: two friends, working together to achieve a common goal.”

Manny tightens his grip, gauntleted fingers digging into his arm almost painfully - an accident, surely. “Come on, Graham. You wouldn’t leave a friend in a lurch, would you?”

Graham eyes the darkness, nerves prickling under his skin. He wonders just how close the dragon is, how long before they’re in range of its fiery breath, its sharp teeth. He's not entirely sure he wants to know.

But then, it's not like he's alone, is he? He has Manny to help him, Manny who came up with a plan to obtain the dragon's eye, Manny who promised to stay at his side, to help. He's neither alone nor unprepared - the bulk of the work has already been done for him. 

Turning back would be safest, but the thought tastes bitter, oily. His father told him, once or twice, that there's a fine line between caution and cowardice. It's a line he doesn't want to cross. 

“No,” he says, “of course not.” 

And without giving himself a chance to hesitate, he ventures further into the cave, Manny trotting at his heels.

* * *

He’s not sure how long they travel in the semi-darkness, in tense and splintered silence, stumbling over rocks and boulders. Behind him, he can hear Manny's clinking footsteps, can hear armor scrape against stones. It’s comforting to know that his friend is close at hand - Graham listens to the sounds and tries to think of happier things: of sunshine, of winning the tournament, of being knighted.

It's another sound entirely - a terrible crackling like meat roasting on a spit - that has him drawing up short, heart hammering in his throat. For several long moments he stands perfectly still, the word _dragon!_ ringing in his head, loud and repetitive and obnoxious.

He can hear noises - snuffling, loud and harsh breathing. A distant waft of hot air washes over him, air that smells of dried blood and brimstone. Dragon’s breath, he realizes. It’s close, too close, close enough to hear him, to smell him, to kill him. He can’t fight it, he thinks, not when he has nothing but arrows, not when his aim is so unreliable. If he’s found, his only option would be to run and hide and hope-

_Stay calm._ Manny is here, close by. Together they can execute the first part of their plan. _Breathe_. Everything will be fine. _Get a hold of yourself._

He feels a certain amount of pride when he speaks and his voice doesn't shake. “What now, Manny?”

Silence. As the seconds stretch out he can feel fear crawling along the back of his neck. “Manny?”

Not a word, from any direction. Not even a shuffle of feet, or the sound of breathing filtered through armor. Graham turns around, peers into the darkness searching for a glint of metal, but there’s nothing but dull, faceless stone, on and on and on.

_I'm alone_ , he thinks numbly, stomach flipflopping at the realization. He's never felt his blood run cold before - it's an awful sensation. _I'm completely alone. He left me alone_. Alone and in far, far over his head, with a useless bow and a dragon close by.

...It’s fine. It’s _fine_. He’ll just go back. Back to the surface, back to the sunshine. He doesn’t really need a dragon’s eye, anyways - there must be another solution. One where he’s much less likely to be torn to pieces. Maybe he could persuade Olfie into helping him - a bridge troll should count as a ‘hideous beast,’ shouldn’t it?

Yes, that sounds like a good, solid plan. He steps forward, ready to begin heading back-

And then he’s cut short by a dreadful sound:

Rumbling. 

A ghastly rumbling from behind him, as if the very stones were shifting and crunching. The ground shudders under his feet - he yelps, startled, the sound lost in the din. He can feel the surrounding air grow warm, and then hot, and then scorching, can hear the _scritch-scritch_ of scales, of claws on stone, the rasping rustle of leathery wings unfolding - quick and sharp and horribly unmistakable.

He’s motionless, staring at the opposite rock-encrusted wall, unable to force himself to move. Something in his mind has frozen, his thoughts splintering into numb disbelief, shivering and useless. _Oh_ , he manages to think with a sort of dull horror, _oh_. 

_The dragon’s found me._


	13. mirror, mirror (scrapped isme fragment)

The magic mirror has long ceased to be useful. Ever since Manny's enchantment, its surface has remained stubbornly dull and foggy, with naught but the occasional snatch of blurry color to be seen. Worthless, worse than worthless even, which was perhaps the only reason Graham was allowed to keep it.

He's not sure, exactly, why he brought it with himself. His flight from the castle was hectic, rushed - he barely had the time to gather a few personal belongings. His hat. His bow. The worn, yellowed picture of Achaka. A few coins - though gold now has little worth in Daventry. 

And the mirror. He remembers snatching it from its place on the wall, remembers looking into its depths for some clue of what to do, what to say, how to fix this - only to be met with mocking blurs. Remembers the way his heart leapt into his throat when he realized that no, he won't be getting any help from the mirror after all. 

(Or from anyone or anything else)

Tucking the useless thing into his cloak was pure impulse, most likely - or perhaps a stupid, sentimental part of him rebelled at the thought of seeing it fall into Manny's hands. And now it's hung up on the wall of his odd, fickle little cottage, being stubbornly unhelpful. He's made no effort to break his habit of glancing at it regularly, but he's learned to stop feeling disappointed when it shows him nothing, day after day after day.

He should get rid of it. It's worthless. And seeing it just reminds him of his own mistakes. 

He doesn't, of course. But sometimes he wishes the house would swallow up the mirror, so he doesn't have to see it again.


	14. Splitting Hairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> based on [gerbiloftriumph's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GerbilofTriumph) artwork here: https://telthor.tumblr.com/post/633635497766535169/just-sit-tight-graham-it-might-take-a-while-for
> 
> thank you to awesomenarwhal (Murphy) for betareading

Something's watching him. 

It's a feeling Graham can't shake off, nagging at the back of his head as he clambers over rocks and ropes and bones and mattresses, searching for the mirror. The feeling of eyes watching him from every corner, dozens of them, waiting for a chance to strike, to take him off guard. 

He rounds corners carefully, expecting to be ambushed, and he barks his shin or bangs his elbow whenever he looks away from his path to search for eyes in the shadows. His skin prickles and prickles and he can't make it stop, can't convince the instinctive fear to dissipate. 

It doesn't help that the cave is quiet. Empty. No sign of the dragon, no monsters, no dangers at all aside from the chance of a twisted ankle. Nothing, nothing, and there's a warning clanging in his head that _this is too easy, too simple, since when has anything ever been simple?_

_You're being paranoid,_ he tells himself. But it's a paranoia that doesn't go away. He feels like he's falling into a trap.

At one point, his foot nudges against a skeleton, and he looks down to see tattered, smudged armor, too familiar. He picks up Achaka's bow with shaking hands, tucks it into his cloak. 

The eyes are still watching him. 

* * *

Another corner, another cavern, another rickety bridge he needs to cross. He clambers over a rock, fingers scrabbling on the stone. The eyes are watching him all the while, waiting for him to slip up, waiting to pounce. 

And his vision fills with gold. 

Gold, shiny gold, deeper down, among the dark rocks. The mirror. He gazes down on it, distracted by its brilliance, thoughts of eyes and ambushes forgotten. There, so close, the end of his mission, inches away. He just needs to climb down and then it'll be in his grasp.

( _But where,_ mutters a part of him, the part that notices things like the pulleys and the platform laden with meat and the sooty traces of dragon fire on the stone walls, _where is the dragon? Where could such an enormous beast be hiding? Why isn't it here, near the food, near the treasure it's guarding? Where could it possibly be?_

_[It's a trap, it's a trap, a trap, turn back, turn_ **_back_ ** _-])_

Graham leans out over the edge. He needs a way down, needs to grab the mirror and leave -

And then hands grab him.

Dozens of hands from behind, grabbing his arms and legs, pulling on his cloak, tugging at his jerkin. He falls backwards with a startled yelp, and they drag him down, down to the ground, pushing him onto his back. He struggles and fights and yells but he can't get free.

Through the panic, he sees shapes, dark, menacing, and it takes a moment to recognize them - _goblins_. Anyone in Daventry knows a goblin when they see one, knows to be wary of the troublemaking creatures. But what, what could they possibly want with him, what -

One of them shoves a rag into his face, pressing it into his mouth and nose, muffling his yelling. It smells like mint, like Muriel's sick room, like sleep. The first whiff makes him light-headed, fuzzes over his thoughts. The goblin presses it further into his face, until Graham can't see or smell or taste anything except the horrible rag, that muffles his thoughts and weighs down his limbs and - and -

_\- oh - it's to make you sleep - it's to -_

_Hold your breath_ , he thinks, but it's _hard_ , it's hard when panic is thrumming under his skin, hard when his heart is beating so loud he can't hear much else. He tugs at the hand holding the rag (doesn't budge an inch) and thrashes (doesn't help) and he draws in gasping breaths of tainted air and he can't seem to stop himself. 

The last thing he hears before he goes under is a cold sort of laugh. 

* * *

Coming back awake is a slow, laborious process. Graham twitches, still half-asleep, muzzy and confused, mouth tasting like mint. His head hurts, stabbing and sharp, and he groans and tries to reach up, to cradle his head, but his arms strain and refuse to move for some odd reason he can’t explain. 

“There you are,” says a voice, sounding entirely too familiar. The words seem to pulse, worsening his headache. “Welcome back to the land of the living.” 

A hand grasps his chin, cold, gauntleted, forcing his head up. Graham flinches, surprised, and tries to draw back, tries to break free of whatever is keeping him pinned, but the hand doesn't let him go and his bindings don’t loosen. 

"Ah-ah-ah," the voice tuts sharply. The fingers dig into his chin, hard enough to bruise, keeping him still. "None of that. Don't move, Graham, or I'll make you regret it."

That voice...he knows that voice. Surprise and shock outweigh pain, and he opens his eyes, squinting against the light. "Manny?"

For Manny it is - the armor is unmistakable, and though the green feather may be tattered, it's another confirmation. The candlelight casts grotesque, wavering shadows across his helmet, and Graham shivers, feeling afraid. He's tied to a rickety wooden chair, he realizes, coarse rope biting into his shoulders, wrists, ankles, and the realization sparks fresh fear, chasing away more of the fog.

"You remember me." The fingers squeeze for a moment, hard edges digging into skin, before Manny lets go. "What an _honor_."

The words are bitter and spiteful. Manny steps back, movements rather like those of an irate cat, lashing and dangerous. “I wasn’t sure you would, you know. It’s been so terribly long. I would have thought you’d moved on to better things. _Nobler_ things.”

Graham looks up, feeling dizzy, barely keeping up with Manny's words. He's still in the caves, he sees, though perhaps a different segment - no one knows how far down its caverns reach, after all. Dark, lined with feeble, guttering candles that cast shadows on the bookcases embedded in the walls. There are desks littered with devices and vials and books, and the air is filled with the scent of potions - like the Hobblepots' shop during a creative spree. In one corner sits a dusty bed with moth-eaten sheets.

Graham tugs at his bindings. His mind is growing clearer by slow increments. Dread presses in, like hounds holding a stag at bay, inching closer, teeth bared and growling. “Manny, what is this?”

“Well, I thought even someone like you would know that.” And Graham can’t see the twisted grin, but he can hear it in Manny’s words. “Seems you need everything spelled out to you. How _did_ you become a knight, I wonder.”

Manny tilts his head a little, thoughtful. “Then again, I guess I can’t be surprised, considering how easily you fell into the trap. I’m almost disappointed.”

(Trap? But - oh - the mirror - _bait_. That makes a horrific sort of sense. Why the dragon wasn’t - _oh_ )

“What?“ The shadows seem to take on a menacing edge. “I don’t - what are you saying?”

Manny’s voice is soft. “This is revenge, Graham,” he says, as if speaking to a small, particularly dimwitted child. With one hand, he waves over to a nearby desk, and Graham follows the gesture, feeling hopelessly confused.

Knives. Pliers. Hooks. Vials bubbling in all manner of sickly colors. Potions books. Graham isn’t sure what to think - the puzzle pieces are all there, but they’re not connecting. 

“It’s a banned practice, of course. But ingredients can come from anywhere,” says Manny, and the puzzle pieces click into a horrifying picture, and Graham’s heart sinks into his stomach.

* * *

Revenge. Revenge for a slight done years ago, revenge for Graham winning the tournament when he should have lost, revenge for stealing the succession to the throne. That's what prompted this. 

(Most of him is horrified. A tiny part is grimly unsurprised)

_Experimentation_ , Manny said. _Ingredients can come from anywhere._ Teeth, blood, bone, sinew. Graham's imagination torments him with all sorts of horrible images, no matter how he tries to stop it. 

(Eyes, tongue, fingers, brain - the list goes on and on - )

"You can't mean to do this," he blurts out, frantic. "I'm a knight of the king, he'll send out searches for me -"

"Is that so,” Manny fairly hisses, and Graham realizes he’s said exactly the wrong thing, prodded again at an old wound, made him angrier still. “Well. I guess I should make this quick. Can’t keep you from your knightly tasks, can I?“

“This is mad - ”

"I ought to cut out your tongue first," says Manny, and his voice is quiet, almost casual, but there’s something menacing there, something that promises _pain_. "Shut you up for good. And I'm sure I could find some use for it."

Graham's teeth click shut. 

"...Maybe later," says Manny at last. He sounds contemplative, but there's still a dangerous edge to his voice, warning Graham to stay quiet. "But for now, I'd like to try something different."

He glances down at the book, then back at Graham. His hand grabs at some unseen object that glitters in the light. “This cosmolotion recipe only needs a single hair from you, but...I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like enough.”

He draws nearer, like a predator. Graham leans back as far as his binds will allow, heart hammering in his throat. “What do you think, Graham? Better to be safe than sorry?”

His fingers wind into Graham’s hair, and he yanks, hard and sharp and painful. Graham’s head snaps to the side and he yelps in a mixture of pain and fear, and he doesn’t know what’s coming but he’s sure it can’t be anything good. “Wait, no, stop, please, _stop_ -”

“Best to err on the side of caution, I think,” continues Manny, as if Graham hadn’t said anything at all. “I’m so glad you agree.”

In his free hand, Graham sees the flash of scissors, and his heart stutters in his chest a moment before the blades snip near his ear. 

It’s not done with any finesse or delicacy, the blunt blades chopping and tearing, and he's not sure how much hair is cut and how much is simply pulled out by the roots. By the time Manny is done, his eyes are watering, and he's hissing little sharp breaths through his teeth with the effort of staying silent. 

But then Manny steps back, and he can see the clumps of black hair between his fingers, caught in the joints of his gauntlet. It sparks an odd sort of feeling, a mix of shock and loss. He's not sure how to process it so he doesn't try, just gazes mutely at the sight. 

Manny doesn’t say a word, just drops the clumps on the desk, amongst the potions rubble. There's rage in the air, thick and potent, so Graham can barely breathe. 

“That should do it,” Manny says at last, cold, mocking, cruel. “No need to _split hairs.”_

* * *

Manny leaves shortly after that - one of the goblins calls him away, thankfully, before he can do much else.

The moment his footsteps fade away, Graham sags, relief seeping in. His fingers twitch - he wants to reach up, to feel the places where the hair is too short, missing, but his arms are pinned in place. _Probably for the best,_ he thinks, before he catches himself and realizes just what a stupid thought that is.

_It's just hair,_ he tells himself. _It'll grow back. Stop being ridiculous._

He has more important things to focus on, anyways. Like getting out of here before Manny removes things that aren't so easy to replace. The thought is properly chilling, and he pulls a little desperately at the ropes but the knots refuse to budge even slightly. 

Maybe he'll take off the fingers, one by one. Go for the tongue, like he promised. 

No. _No_. He cannot panic. He isn’t allowed to panic. "You'll be fine," he mutters to himself. "You'll be fine. Just another adventure.”

_It's a puzzle, Graham. Find a way out._


	15. Tin Soldiers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based on [CaptMickey's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptMickey) AU here: https://captmickey.tumblr.com/post/638268366063353856/i-am-screeching-at-that-idea-especially-loving
> 
> thank you to awesomenarwhal (Murphy) for betareading

"Number One!”

No1 knows that tone rather too well. It’s No3’s ‘there’s a problem and we need your help’ tone. While she rarely used it in the past, he finds it’s becoming far more frequent than he’d like.

A moment later, his suspicions are confirmed. No3 is upon him, helmet gone and curls springing up in all directions, a sure sign of her distress. She looks stressed, and she’s saying something about ‘Graham’ and ‘injured’, words tripped-up and rushed and muddled.

No1 knows from long experience that when those two words are in the same sentence, he needs to drop whatever he’s doing and move _quickly_. So, he turns sharply on his heel and heads directly for the barracks, as fast as is appropriate.

* * *

It's a scene that has played out several times before - how many, No1 isn't sure. Enough for a grim sense of foreboding to settle into his bones, the successor of what used to be wild panic, now tempered by long experience. Not enough to keep his heart from doing an awful flip-flop of fear whenever he hears the news, dropping into his stomach before leaping into his throat (but then again, perhaps that never would go away).

_You're supposed to keep them safe_ , mutters a part of him, darkly accusatory. It nips at his heels like a fox, pushing him onwards, and he picks up speed, almost (not quite) running, doesn’t slow until he reaches the entrance to the barracks.

"You took that hit pretty hard," he hears No2 saying, just before he walks through the door.

The barracks are shadowed, poorly lit, the only light coming from thin, dusty rays of sunlight that poke through the windows. No1’s eyes need a moment to adjust, but he already knows what he’s going to see.

There’s a shape huddled on one of the lower bunks - _two_ shapes, he realizes a moment later. Graham is perched on the end of the bed, most of his armor shedded, shirt rolled up and tucked under his armpits. At his side, No2 kneels with a bandage kit and a jar of salve, sleeves rolled up, helmet and gauntlets missing.

(They're using _his_ bunk, a small part of him notes with some exasperation. He’s going to have to clean blood and dirt out of his sheets _again_ )

It’s not the first time he’s walked in on similar sights, far from it. It is, however, the first time that it’s quite so bad. No1's gaze is drawn to a splotching of dark, almost black bruising, fanning out over Graham's left side like the results of a macabre fingerpainting session. They look deep and painful, and No1 can't help but flinch in sympathy.

"Keep still," No2 is saying. His brow is furrowed in a mix of concern and concentration. His fingers are coated to the knuckles in reddish goop, and every time he rubs the salve into the bruising, Graham shudders and hisses.

"Sorry," mutters Graham, nearly inaudible, and flinches again. He looks exhausted and in pain, eyes bloodshot and lined with deep, dark circles. It's an expression he wears too often as of late, and the concern it sparks in No1 has yet to wear off even a little.

Then, Graham's gaze falls on No1, and with a visible start he forces himself to sit up straight. "Sir," he stammers, tripping over formalities. At his side, No2 gives a goop-laden salute without looking up. No1 can’t keep from rolling his eyes behind his helmet.

"At ease," he says. Graham seems too happy to oblige, curling in slightly on himself, face pale and drawn. No1 notes, almost distantly, a smattering of bruises on his left cheekbone, half-shadowed. "What on earth happened to you?"

“Nothing,” says Graham, too quickly, and immediately flinches when No2 pads at the bruises. "It's just a few bruises, nothing to worry about."

"He's bruised a rib," says No2. Graham glares at him. No2 ignores it. No1 feels ridiculously proud. "Rather badly, too. He says he was thrown against a rock."

“ _He_ wasn’t _thrown_ , he was _gently flung_ ,” snaps Graham, reassuring exactly no one. There’s a hitch to his breathing - No1 can hear it, now that he’s paying attention. “And it wasn’t a rock. It was a tree.”

“That’s not much better,” No2 says with a sigh - _can you see what I’m dealing with here,_ it seems to say. No1 can sympathize. “You’re lucky you didn’t get hurt worse. Imagine if you’d landed on your head.”

That’s. That’s a terrible thought, he finds, rushing in and chilling him to his bones. His head fills with all manner of awful images, of mangled bodies. He entertains them a moment, feeling cowed, then forcefully shoves them aside, buries his momentary weakness under an exasperated sigh. “No2 makes an excellent point. Graham. You need to be more careful.”

Graham doesn’t seem to like that comment at all, dropping the formalities to deliver an impressive scowl. “I am - I _try_ to be careful. It’s difficult. I can’t - “ he huffs in frustration, looking cornered. “It’s difficult,” he repeats.

_It’s difficult when I haven’t slept properly for days, when I haven’t been trained for this, when I’m hurt and tired and overwhelmed._ Words that go unsaid, that have never been uttered, but that still hover in the air because No1 is neither stupid nor blind.

There’s nothing that can come from having that particular conversation, though, because there’s nothing to be done. All No1 can do is support and protect his subordinates as best he can. He can’t challenge the chain of command, disrupt hierarchies that have been in place for centuries. He knows this.

It still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Nevertheless, do try,” he says. He can’t keep the sarcasm from seeping in, all the worry and frustration and fear bubbling to the surface. “Think of all the work you’re giving Number Two.”

That’s the exact wrong thing to say, as it turns out. To No1’s horror, Graham’s expression twists in guilt, and he turns to No2, looking contrite. “I’m sorry, Number Two.”

And this is why No2 is his second-in-command. Because as No1 is cursing himself for his misstep, No2 effortlessly diffuses the situation. “I don’t mind for my sake,” says No2, tone turning self-deprecatingly wry. “It brings meaning to my otherwise vapid existence. I’m rather more worried about _you_.”

It’s amazing how quickly Graham clams up. “I’m _fine_.”

“Oh, really? When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night,” Graham says brazenly, because No1’s protegee can’t deliver a straight lie to save his life, but he’s startlingly good at lying by omission.

Unfortunately for him, No2 is wise to his games, and not at all impressed. “And how _long_ did you sleep?”

Silence.

“Graham. How long did you sleep.”

_More_ silence.

No2 huffs. "This has to stop," he says, as he scoops up another fingerful of goop, rubs it into the bruises. "You can't continue like this."

"I don't have a choice," mutters Graham. There’s a weariness lacing his words, the worn-out edges of a frequent argument.

"You're going to get yourself killed," No2 retorts, uncharacteristically sharp. No1 would be lying if he said that the words didn't spark an awful kind of nauseous fear, prodding directly at a thought he's had so many times before and tried to bury.

"It's just a few bruises."

"This is not _your job_." That's true, in a sense. Guards aren't trained for this, for scurrying out into the field and fighting monsters and sorcerers and other terrible creatures on their own. Guards are meant to stay quietly in the castle, to protect the king, to sit on the sidelines, halfway to anonymity. They aren't meant to be _heroes_.

"It is my job if Manny says it is."

But that's where it all comes to a standstill, a barrier in the road with Manny's name scribbled on it. A problem they can't overcome. _It is my job if Manny says it is_ , and as much as No1 wants to protest, he knows that Graham is right. Knights have precedence over guards. Knights perform the will of the king - guards are at their disposal as much as they are at the king’s, a potential resource.

_It is my job if Manny says it is._ If Manny insists on sending him out to risk his life at any given opportunity, No1 can’t really do anything to stop him.

_You're supposed to keep them safe._

"That's enough," says No1, patience finally running short. There's a decision forming in his head, spinning back and forth. Graham immediately falls silent. No2 subsides into grim muttering, continuing his ministrations.

“There isn’t much we can do,” No1 says slowly, because this is a problem he’s thought about before, to no avail. “But we have to manage as best we can. And right now, that means that Number Two is going to finish patching you up, and then you’re going to _sleep_.”

Graham’s expression darkens, something like fear flashing across his face. "I can work," he says, jaw set in stubbornness, and, with a wince he doesn't think that No1 can see, he pushes himself to his feet, shaking off No2's ministrations. He stands tall and proud and stiff like a guard at attention, and he meets No1's gaze with admirable fortitude that is only slightly dampened by the way he sways on his feet, almost imperceptibly. " _Sir_."

No1 takes a moment to take in Graham's shaking hands and trembling fingers. The deep, dark shadows under his eyes, as if he were punched in the face, twice. The bruises mottling his left cheekbone - the results of an _actual_ punch - already turning purple. The shadows, the way Graham is poised, seem to work together to emphasize them, each of the marks standing out starkly. The sight seems to sear across No1’s vision, burning into his brain.

_I can’t_. Not ever. _You’re supposed to keep them safe_. "Absolutely not," he says.

Graham still looks like he wants to protest, expression oddly desperate. No1 places a hand on his shoulder - carefully, so as not to jostle any hidden injury - and forces his own voice to soften. “I’d prefer for this to be a request from a friend,” he says, “but I can make it an order if I must. Please.”

“But Manny-”

“I’ll take care of him. I swear.”

Graham seems to relax, then, ever so slightly. No2 pounces on the opportunity, grabbing Graham by the wrist, tugging him gently back down. "Sit down, I still need to wrap this."

Graham wavers a moment, but a quick _look_ from No1 is the final nail in the coffin. He concedes with a remarkable lack of grace, flopping back onto the bed before hissing in startled pain. No2 just tuts and dips his fingers into the jar of salve.

"Patch him up and make sure he sleeps," No1 tells him. " _Really_ sleeps."

No2 nods grimly, before applying the salve. No1’s job here is done, so he leaves them to it, turning away and walking out of the barracks, feeling distinctly uneasy.

* * *

As it happens, he doesn’t even get the time to return to the castle. Someone calls him before he’s a few steps away from the barracks, an imperious cry of ‘Number One!’ that he’s become far too acquainted with, that grates on his ears in a familiarly unpleasant manner. No1 turns around, trying to keep himself level, calm, swallowing the bubbling irritation.

No1 doesn’t like Manny very much at all, because he knows the sort of person Manny is. Has seen it all before. There are those who tend to forget that there are people behind the helmets and underneath the uniforms. Those who think of the royal guards as little more than cannon fodder. Expendable. Faceless tin soldiers lined up in neat little rows.

Who ever cared if a few of them fell? There were so _many_ of them.

“Sir Manny,” he says, careful. There are words on his tongue, harsh words begging to be said, and it’s an effort to keep them safely hidden out of view. “What can I do for you?”

“Number One,” says Manny, half-distracted, impatient, dismissive. Something in his voice makes No1 bristle with irrational irritation. “Is Graham back? I need to speak with him-”

And something in No1’s chest goes very cold and then very warm, burning almost, and before he can stop himself, before he can remember to _be careful what you say_ , he’s snapping, sharp, angry: “No.”

(Graham bruised and battered and tired, so tired, No2 worried out of his mind, No3 racing down the halls to fetch him, helmet missing and hair askew, and _you're supposed to keep them safe-)_

“I beg your pardon?” Manny’s voice is politely acidic, like a honey-coated razor blade. No1 knows he’s treading on dangerous ground. He _knows_. Manny is the one in power - No1 is just a guard. Expendable. One of a set, easily replaced.

But.

_You’re supposed to keep them safe._

"Addendum three hundred and eighty-seven," says No1, with all the authority he can muster, the lie sliding off his tongue with remarkable ease, "states that a knight may not call upon a guard for assistance if the aforementioned guard is performing a service for the king. Graha- Guard Number Fourteen is in the middle of a task assigned by His Majesty. You cannot call on him."

This is only partially a lie. Addendum 387 says precisely that - it’s just that the king didn’t request Graham’s services at all. It’s almost foolproof, No1 thinks, since these days the king is in such a state that he barely remembers what he said yesterday. Hopefully, Manny won’t ask any embarrassing questions -

“What sort of task?”

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. No1 briefly and silently panics. “That’s confidential,” he finally blurts out, and immediately cringes behind his helmet, feeling like he’s dug himself deeper into a hole of lies.

Manny looks at him for a long moment, considering. No1 refuses to flinch.

“Fine,” Manny says at last, sounding reluctant, a little like a petulant child. No1 feels a heady rush of relief that vanishes the moment Manny speaks again. “But the moment he’s available for work, I expect him to come see me. I have a job for him.”

_I have a job for him_ \- a very neat and pretty way of saying _I’m going to fling him again into harm’s way, because no one will miss him if one day he doesn’t come back._ “One of the other guards could-”

“I have my reasons for wanting Graham,” Manny snaps back, quick and sharp, and No1 knows not to press further, even as he sorely wants to. _Can’t you see what you’re doing to him,_ he wants to say, _can’t you see you’re hurting him?_

But he doesn’t say any of those things - No1 has become quite good at biting back the words. He just nods like the perfect little soldier. “I’ll let him know to see you, then.”

“Please do.” Without so much as a goodbye, Manny walks away. No1 stands straight until he disappears, until the last of his footsteps echo into silence, before sagging ever so slightly in relief.

There are penalties for what he's done, assuming Manny ever discovers the lie. Lying to a superior, impeding a knight in their duties, abuse of his status as a guard. No1 can recite them all. Each one marks him, each one screams _unreliable, not trustworthy, insubordinate._

A part of him feels ashamed. The rest of him is grimly satisfied.

_You’re supposed to keep them safe._ And, by the stars, he will.


	16. Shiver

Neese shivers.

The Ice Palace is an imposing sight, towering and twisted and breathlessly sharp, shimmering grey under a bitter white sky. So cold that she feels it could cut into her skin, sharper than any knife. Something in her, instinctive, primal, doesn’t want to be here. Wants her to turn back. 

But Vee is here, if her sources are correct (and of course they are, squirrels are remarkably observant creatures). Graham is as well. After so much searching, she’s not leaving without them both.

They’ve been missing for almost five years. Five years ago, Daventry’s monarchs vanished into thin air, leaving their kingdom in chaos and disarray. Five years ago, Neese received a note by one of Daventry’s carrier pigeons, in Guard Number One’s desperate scrawl, quill scratched straight through the parchment, begging for her help. She’s been searching ever since, with favors begged from her father and Acorn’s squirrel friends to help.

This is where her search has led her, to a labyrinth of snow and ice that hardly looks welcoming. _Leave_ , says the heavy ice doors. _Leave, and never come back._

Needs sets her shoulders and walks in with her head held high. 

* * *

She doesn’t know how long it takes. Time has a funny way of blurring in here, the days mere endless white, directionless, empty. Her footsteps echo in the silence - she feels like she’s entered some aged crypt, like any moment she’ll turn a corner and see a sarcophagus laced in snow and frost.

(The ice sculptures seem to watch her with silent, judging gazes. She shivers and ignores them as best she can)

At first, the palace seems faceless. Empty, like nothing has ever lived here except the half-alive misshapen guards. But, slowly, she starts to see traces of her old friends. A scrap of Vee’s green dress, caught on a spike of ice. One of Graham’s arrows embedded in the wall. Little things, priceless things, that frighten rather than comfort her, sending shivers of fear up and down her spine.

(She doesn’t want to be here any longer. She wants to be outside, reunited with her friends, safe and sound, where she can scrub away the cold and forget the whispering of the guards)

It feels almost like mockery when the puzzles start. Like this is all a joke, a _game_. Neese grits her teeth and forces herself through it, but all the while it seems to scrape on her nerves, driving her anxiety up to a fever pitch.

(Every sliding block screams _Vee, Vee, Vee_ almost in her face. Every lever and pulley and button feels like it has Graham’s name etched on it. The only thing Neese doesn’t know is _why_ )

Lost in thought, she turns a corner, and stumbles directly into Graham.

* * *

Graham looks terrible. Haggard and despondent and hopeless, hair, clothes lined with frost. He’s looking at her with wide, haunted eyes, as still as a startled deer. His face is pale as if he’s on the verge of fainting, all the better to emphasize a cluster of angry purple bruises on his left cheekbone. He looks drawn and awful and washed-out, like he hasn’t stepped outside these walls in years, and the first words on Neese’s lips are, “What _happened_ to you?”

“Neese?” It jars him out of his frozen shock, at least, but the panic that replaces it is no better. He doesn’t seem to register her words. "You need to get out of here," he says, rushed, frantic, all terror and unhealthy energy. "You have to go, before she finds you, if she finds you she'll never let you leave again - "

“Graham, please, I can’t follow a word you’re saying.” That silences him, though it does nothing for the wild fear in his eyes. Neese places a hand on his arm, softens her voice, as if she were speaking to some hurt, frightened creature. “What’s going on? Who’s going to find me?”

“It’s Vee, but - “

“Vee?” Something quivers in her chest, vibrating like a crystal vase struck with a spoon, startled and eager. “Here? Where?”

“Neese, _no_.”

She gapes, aghast. “What do you mean, _no_?”

“Listen to me - ”

A third voice speaks then, from some unseen place, calling out. "Graham?"

Graham freezes, stiff, like a statue, like some of those misshapen ice sculptures Neese saw in the shadows. His fingers dig into her arm, barely on the edge of painful. They’re cold as ice, she notes distantly, a chill that seeps easily through her sleeve.

But Neese finds she doesn't care, because that voice...sounds like...sounds like…

Like Vee. Like Vee, except wrong. Like Vee, except cold and distant and splintering around the edges. 

Like Vee, except not like Vee at all. 

"What - " she doesn't get any further. Graham presses a freezing hand over her mouth, muffling her words, and he shoves her into a shadowed corridor, her feet skidding on the ice floor. She pushes back but her strength is no match for his own - she’s deep in the shadows before he removes his hand from her mouth. 

"You’re going to stay here," he says before she can speak, before she can demand answers. His voice is barely more than a whisper, hushed and desperate and filled with hopeless, wild fear. "Stay, and be quiet, and not move until she and I are gone. And then you’re going to leave this place and never look back.”

Anger bubbles under her skin, mixing with her fear, the two curdling into something ugly and awful. “I would _never_.”

“You have to. Neese - ”

“I’m supposed to bring you _back_ \- “

“ _You can’t help us_ ,” he snarls, suddenly at the end of his patience. His voice takes on a strange quality, almost crystalline, inhuman, and Neese stills in shock. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again, almost gentle - but the crystal still undercurrents his words, twisting and fractured. “Neese. Please.”

“ _Graham!_ ”

Both of them flinch as Vee’s voice echoes in the silence, nearer this time. It seems to ring with danger now, almost grating. Neese shivers, and slowly nods, and backs further into the shadows, and Graham lets her go and walks away, out of her sight. She remains still, breathless - all she can do is listen, so listen is what she does. 

“Graham,” says Vee, all awkward inflection and chiming syllables. “I was looking everywhere for you.”

Neese can hear Graham shifting, can feel the anxiety emanating from him. “Here I am, Icebella.”

“Here you are,” she parrots back. A sound of rustling skirts. “Is there someone else here with you, dear? Only I thought I heard you speaking to someone. A friend of yours, perhaps?” 

(Something in the way she says _friend_ chills Neese to the bone)

Graham chuckles, a fractured, slightly hysterical sound. "No, love. I was just talking to myself," he says, and Neese winces, because it sounds like a lie. Sounds fake. Graham was never a good liar. Vee would notice, of course she would, because Vee is smart and focused and driven and if Neese, scatterbrained Neese can spot the tightness of his words and the stilted lean of his vowels, then of course Vee would as well. 

But Vee just hums, a noncommittal sound, and for a breathless moment when Neese thinks _she's going to ask, she's going to find me, if she finds you she'll never let you leave again-_

"Very well," says Vee, and Neese could have fainted on the spot from sheer relief. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

Graham’s voice turns sad, then, almost remorseful. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow,” he says, as heavy as a promise. 

Vee hums again, pleased this time, and then Neese hears the sound of footsteps walking away, one light and stately, one heavy and slow. She waits until the last echo fades into nothing, and then she sags against the wall, boneless with relief. She breathes in through her nose and out through her teeth. Does it again and again and again, but it doesn't help at all. Her heart beats swift and shallow in her chest, and the fear churning in her stomach grows and grows and grows. 

The cold seems sharper than ever before. Neese shivers, and wonders what she could possibly do next.


	17. dreams and wishes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part of the Static AU, where Graham, Vee, and Neese never leave the tower, and are trapped as they're slowly consumed by the ice curse.

The barrier is impossible to cross. Graham has figured that out long ago, has tried every trick, every workaround, every loophole he could think of, every possible avenue of escape, honest or not. Attempts that increased in desperation the closer the ice crept in, that grew ever more frantic, uncoordinated, powered less by logic and more by terror-fueled hope. Like sliding down a sheer cliff at breakneck speed, and you’re clawing for purchase, a ledge, anything, but all you achieve are bloodied hands and a mounting uncontrolled panic.

He did something similar, once or twice or many times. Clawed and struggled and fought and begged until the hope slipped away, warmth stolen by cold sharp ice. The cold stole his body, replacing it with ice; stole his voice, replacing it with cracking half-syllables and frozen silence; bit by bit, stole his hope as well, leeching away until he had almost nothing left.

_Almost_. Sometimes, he forgets. Sometimes, his memories click and spin in just the wrong way, and he forgets that there is no hope, that nothing ever works, nothing ever changes. Sometimes, like now, he finds himself prodding at the barrier, raking fingernails against unyielding weightless gold, searching for a gap (throwing himself at it, frenzied, scrabbling, pounding his fists against solid nothing until his heavy fingers crack - ).

The quiet is deafening, as always. Just the gentle hum of the cold wind, the creaking and rocking of the tower, the soft humming of the barrier, all muffled under the snow and ice. Peaceful. Deathly. Graham paces back and forth, feet crunching in the snow, itching with a sudden thoughtless need for freedom. He searches and searches for a gap, for something, anything - doesn’t know what he’ll do when he finds it, of course not, but he feels he has to try, in a numb, insistent sort of way.

Neese doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to care - these days, her head seems stuck in frozen clouds. Vee, however, does; she watches him, silent, almost judgmental, watches his every move. Her gaze burns like frostbite. 

“I’m not sure why you try,” she says at last. Her voice is warped slightly around the edges, lining her syllables with something cold and alien - but not as badly as his own, not enough to mangle words into gibberish. “You know it won’t work.”

He just shrugs, nothing to say, no words to say it with. Keeps pacing, like a caged lion, joints creaking like a groaning glacier. _Escape, escape, escape_ , something in him seems to say, but there’s nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, just cold, just ice, and where would he run to, anyways? Where would he go? No one would want him.

(Flashes of warm, soft sunlight, of friendly faces, of fire and crowns and dragons. The corners of his vision always filled with red flowing cloth - but no. His frost-encrusted cloak is nearly purple, and it hangs stiff and heavy off his shoulders as he moves, uncomfortable.

[He never found it in himself to remove it])

Again, near-silence, filled with his own pacing. Neese is humming a tune, something rattling like icicles. She does that most of the time - sings and hums and laughs at nothing, runs her crystalline fingers over the broken strings of her lute, lost in a world of her own. Sometimes he envies her, jealous of her ability to just drift away to a place where nothing hurts. Other times he's aware enough to realize that it's not much of a mercy.

"Do you know what I think?" asks Vee out of the blue, something like delight lacing her words. "I think you're just not _trying_ hard enough."

He turns, startled, barrier and half-memories and goals forgotten. Vee smiles at him, clear and glittering and breathtakingly sharp, and something in his chest splinters at the sight. Even like this, cold and dangerous and utterly unlike herself, he loves her.

“And I think I know why,” she says, almost a purr, intoxicating, _cold_ , sinking into his bones and numbing him inside out. “You don’t _want_ to leave. Is that it?”

Does he? He isn’t sure. His bones yearn to be outside of this place, his hands are laced with spiderwebbing cracks from trying to force his way out - but something in him knows it’ll never happen. Something in him knows there’s nothing for him out there, nothing that would welcome him. All he has is this tiny space carved out of ice and bad intentions, and two people stuck in this hell with him. He can’t dream of anything more.

(But at the same time, he can’t forget sunlight and kind eyes and fireplaces and...did he ever have those things? Did he? It doesn’t feel real, too good to be true. Surely he’d remember, no matter what, surely he wouldn’t have taken it all for granted)

“Graham?” Vee sounds almost hesitant, now, hairline fractures forming in her words. “No. You don’t want to leave. Of course not. Do you?”

Neese has stopped singing. There’s nothing but the sound of people waiting for an answer, tense, strained. A fork in the road, a choice to make. _No_ leads to trodden paths he knows well, that always circle back to this point. _Yes_ leads somewhere shadowed and unknown and utterly terrifying, leads to shattered promises and trust, leads to _change_ , awful deadly change.

No. Never. He can’t waste time in dreams and wishes, not anymore. The three of them just have each other - if one of the set went missing, the others would crumble. Graham can’t let them crumble, can’t be selfish, especially not when the rewards wouldn’t be worth the cost.

It’s not really a choice at all. He shakes his head, slow, deliberate, and watches the tension fade from Vee’s shoulders. The correct choice, the only choice. Anything else is more danger than it’s worth.

Steps slow and heavy, he walks over to her, wraps an arm around her waist, pulls her close. She stiffens and then relaxes, leans into his hold, ice clinking softly against ice. For now, peace is preserved. 

(She doesn’t feel cold to him, not anymore)

Neese starts to hum again. The wind continues to whistle. The ice hangs heavy in the air, and the barrier shimmers gold, as it always does, as it always will. He just has to reconcile himself to that, forget everything else, let it all fly away from him like snow in a storm. It’s easier that way.

Nothing ever changes. It all stays the same. He has to remember that.

(It’s difficult, but he’ll manage. He knows it)


End file.
